


This Burning Desire (is turning me to sin)

by Flyting



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dark reylo, F/M, Imagined Violence, Stalker With a Crush, Submissive Kylo Ren, Virgin Kylo Ren, Wet Dream, control your boner kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7157639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He had always taken pride in being immune to things like soft skin and strong thighs.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Kylo Ren struggles with the feelings that Rey has awakened in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Burning Desire (is turning me to sin)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuCYXxHxtlM) lovely Reylo vid to _Hellfire_ from Hunchback of Notre Dame

He felt it again. Every bit as insidious as the call to the light, but far more shameful. It burrowed under his skin, raced along his veins. Spoiling. Defiling everywhere it touched. Corrupting what he worked so hard to purify.  
  
In his dreams, she is sharp and real and beautiful as she leans over him, her knees on either side of his waist and her breath warm against the shell of his ear. The soft rush of it tickles his hair. “I know what you want,” she murmurs there, her voice low. The sound makes him shift his hips up against her thoughtlessly, like an animal, desperate for contact. She smells like sand and sunlight.

Her small, calloused hand is gentle on the side of his face, cradling his jaw. “I can see it in your mind. So many dirty little secrets locked away in here. It’s alright, shh-“ she hushes him, a warm susurrus of air against his skin, when a pleading sound crawls its way out of his throat.  His hands spasm uselessly. Fingers clench around nothing. He needs to touch her- needs to curl his hands around her waist, her thighs, her _throat-_ but she has him pinned, supine beneath her.

“Oh, please.” He barely recognizes his own voice muttering a broken benediction when her wicked little hands trail over his bare throat, his shoulders. Every touch sends fire racing through his veins. “Please, _please_ …”

There is something fierce and predatory in her eyes, like she wants to devour him. He would let her- oh, he would let her. She easily holds his arms stretched up over his head with the Force, effortlessly overpowering, while one hand slides down his belly, deftly slipping between layers of heavy fabric to curl exactly where he aches-  
  
“Rey…“ A groan shatters in his throat as he wakes with the damp, sticky evidence of his shame already cooling on his stomach.  
  
Kylo feels himself going faintly pink, even alone in the pitch-dark of his quarters. His breathing settles. He brings a towel from the other room, and cleans himself up, trying to avoid touching any of the mess. There is something infinitely distasteful to him about all the wet, filthy aspects of his own biology. Blood and sweat and piss and all the other sewage of an organism. It was revolting. Blood he doesn’t mind as much when it’s someone else’s, but his own…  
  
This particular problem was… It hadn’t happened like this since he was a boy. Why now? He has no idea - _no that’s not true, you know exactly why now and why her_ , an unfamiliar insidious voice whispers. The girl stole her way into his mind and left a little piece of herself there to torment him. She must have. Why else would he see the sheen of her hair in the polished black metal of the ship or the fire in her eyes in the darkness behind his eyelids? Why else would his limbs ache like he can still feel the slight weight of her in his arms?

It wasn’t his fault. This was something she had done to him- it must be. He had always taken pride in being immune to things like soft skin and strong thighs. Any fleeting desire for base physical pleasure was channeled into something more useful- fighting, training. Something that would bring him closer to his goals. Closer to the dark side.

It isn’t required of him. His Master doesn’t care what Kylo does with his body, so long as his mind remains dedicated to their cause. He wouldn’t object if Kylo chose to glut himself on some warm and willing body. To _indulge._  No, this- it’s something that he chooses. There is strength in purity. In abstinence. That was one thing the Jedi got right. When he resists the sordid, disgusting impulses of his body, refuses to give in to his baser nature, he is left stronger for it. It sharpens him, gives him an edge which he can hone and point towards his enemies.

Rolling out of bed, he dresses mechanically in the dark and heads for one of the training rooms he knows will be empty around this time. He needs to burn off this restless energy. Purge these thoughts from his mind. Turn it to something productive. Fighting is productive. _Revenge_ is productive.

There are nearly a hundred-thousand personnel on board the _Finalizer._ Far too many for anyone to connect the silent, dark-haired young man they sometimes pass in the halls with Lord Kylo Ren. Without the mask and robe, he is effectively invisible.

He draws his lightsaber instead of taking one of the training weapons lined up against the wall. The General will whine and complain at the cost of the damaged practice equipment, as if an Empire can be built on piles of numbers and spreadsheets, but Kylo finds himself unable to muster up the energy to care. Taking care of the budget is Hux’s job, and he will make it account for this or the Order will find someone else who can.

Kylo takes the image of Rey, sharp and beautiful as sunlight in his mind, and twists it; imagines what he will do to the scavenger girl when he finally gets ahold of her. How he will batter down her opposition with sheer force, push through her defenses, forcing her back until she collapses, exhausted, from the assault.

He imagines her on her back, in front of him. Panting. Bruised and bleeding. Beaten.

Better. _Yes_. He spins, swings again. Gravity lends weight to the blow. But she would have taken advantage of his hesitation- his moment of weakness- and dodged. Of course she would have- defiant even to the very end.

Kylo steels himself against the urge to offer her mercy. That was her influence in his head, nothing more. It had to be.

There is so much potential in her. So much raw, untapped energy. He remembers the way she forced herself into his mind, pushing past his defenses. Clumsy, untrained, but so _strong_. He had never felt anything like it. Never been invaded, never been _forced_ that way. It was a shock. He tells himself that he doesn’t want to feel it again. Doesn’t want to see what she could do if she were properly trained.

What they could do together. He could teach her how to hone that skill, she only had to accept it. Accept him.  
  
It’s an impertinence. Of course it is. He hasn’t completed his own training yet. Still, he is knowledgeable enough to teach her. He knows he could do it. Could give her the guidance that she is so painfully lacking. And with her by his side, nothing could stand in their way- nothing. The thought is so bright it burns. He could make her a queen if she would only let him.

She would be beautiful on a throne. Beautiful and terrible as the dawn, her hair down, flowing loose over her narrow shoulders. A deity made flesh, ruling over the empire he had built for her out of the shattered remains of their enemies.

He pauses, suddenly panting, and runs the hand not holding his saber through his sweat-slick hair.

That thought was dangerously close to treason.

And yet- and yet- _and yet-_  he can’t deny the vicious joy that spikes in his chest at the thought of her being _his_. Of her grudgingly leashing that sharp tongue of hers and letting him teach her- letting him guide her to that greatness he saw when he first looked at her. Or the thrill he got, lower and far more wicked, at the thought of Rey dropping to her knees and calling him _master._

That conjures to mind, completely unbidden, the thought of her in his bed, her slim thighs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his backside, urging him to _fuck me harder, master, please fuck me-_  
  
He stops halfway through hacking apart a practice dummy, suddenly intensely grateful that there is no one else in the room at this hour. His situation would be… embarrassing to explain, to say the least. He deactivates the lightsaber, clutching it so tightly in his fist that the metal groans from the pressure.

In and out- he breathes deeply through his nose, willing his sudden, stubborn hardness to subside.

He doesn’t want this. He hates that he wants _her,_ with an intensity that borders on painful. Wants every filthy, sordid thing he’s only ever imagined before. He wants her to smile at him. To hit him. Wants to fist his hands in her hair, feel it slip through his fingers; to crush their mouths together and find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells. It was weak, shameful- both the wanting, and that it should be so _soft_ -

No, this was wrong. He didn’t want those things- he couldn’t. It was- This was something she had done to him. Something she had left inside his mind to hollow him out from the inside. She was trying to turn him from his true path. Tear him down, make him weak. Make him doubt himself.

 _Help me,_ he pleads silently, to anyone who is listening. _Please_. _Don’t let her consume me._

Lately, his self-denial has been so absolute. Too absolute. It was becoming a problem, he can see that now. It’s left this gap in his mental defenses, an opening for her to exploit with these disgusting visions, these desires. It wasn’t his fault- it _wasn’t_.

She would pay for tormenting him like this. He would find her on whatever forsaken rock she chose to hide on, and he would make her scream apologies. This was no different than any other weakness he had overcome. Love. Family. Lust. He would not be seduced.

He growls, flinging what’s left of the training equipment flying across the room with a wave of his hand.

The Force ensures that he meets no one on the short trip back to his rooms. His tight-fitting training clothes are shed haphazardly on the floor as he steps into the refresher to wash the worst of the salt and sweat off his skin. He dials the temperature of the water down to something just above freezing. Enough to make his breath catch when he steps under the spray. He washes perfunctorily, without touching his cock, and shuts off the water.

It doesn’t help, none of it. As soon as he slips into bed and closes his eyes, she’s there. Waiting for him in the darkness behind his eyelids.


End file.
